First we got in an elevator that only went to the fifth floor. We found another elevator to get to the sixth. The sixth floor was actually about three floors split up and only accessible by unconnected staircases on opposite sides of the building. It lent an acute sense of "firecodes-shmirecodes" to the hotel.
We went up and down the non-adjoining staircases and found no arrows leading to the 660s. Then out of nowhere our tour guide appeared. Wait here! I'll go find it, he said. I was thinking he probably wanted us to wait without him so he could go unlock the other dimension of time and space where our room existed.
Found it! He called.
We trundled upstairs to the third part of the "sixth floor" and walked all the way to the far, unlit end of the hall, past 623, 624, 625, the numbers didn't even extend up into the 640s. And then there was room 666. There were two conclusions I could draw from this: One - that this was the room they had for when the goths blew into Phnom Penh; or two, we were going to be butchered that night by vengeful spirits. The ultimate culmination of a lifetime of horror movie watching. Boo.
Of course, our key card didn't work. So again, our guide told us to wait while he went to see about it. This guide, by the way, was clean-shaven except for a mole with four two- inch-long hairs growing out of his jawline - that's so evil, right?
He was gone long enough for the shaman in the basement to whisper an incantation and slaughter a goat. When he returned our card worked, unlocking a very nice two-room suite. Evil hotel rooms are always deceptively nice.
There was lightning so we couldn't go swimming. We decided to check out the basement karaoke bar.
"You want to do karaoke?" the woman at the front desk asked, incredulous. But she pointed the way.
We walked downstairs and through the double doors. Thirty beautiful young women in cheap cocktail dresses stared at us as we entered - me wearing a pink t-shirt that came free with the tour and the hotel's white shower flip flops. Oh no, I thought, I can't possibly sing in front of all these gorgeous Asian girls.
See, Asians love karaoke. I love karaoke too, but I can only go when I can muster enough friends to trek to Koreatown back in L.A., that only happens about twice a year. Thus, I'm not as confidant in my karaoke skillz as karaokists this side of the Pacific.
"You want to sit and watch people sing?" a server asked. He scanned the room for a table, all the pretty girls were taking up the tables near the stage.
He walked over to one table of young women and made the international gesture for "shoo." They scattered. The front desk lady's surprise suddenly made sense. We must've missed the part where they explained karaoke bar is a euphemism for whore den.
We ordered a beer. I was the only woman in the room not working. There were a couple Asian men giggling with some of the girls on a couch in back. But most of the others didn't have any business. They sat, smoked, and occasionally clacked across the dance floor in their stilettos yammering into their cellphones.
At first it seemed funny: We're in Cambodia and we've stumbled into a room full of prostitutes. How cliche. James encouraged me to sing a number. When else would I get a chance to perform for dozens of hookers?
Four more middle-aged Asian men walked in. They took a seat on a couch and one of the older women (the house mom?) sat down with them. A few minutes passed, the older woman said something and in unison the girls rose from all corners of the room and walked toward the couch. They all had numbers pinned to the straps of their dresses and belly shirts.
They lined up in front of the men whom proceeded to make their selections for the night. The spectacle immediately made me feel sick inside - seeing so many young women herded in front of men who were buying. We left before we finished our drinks.
As we headed back to room 666 I thought about how incredibly, wonderfully blessed I am to have grown up with means, and freedom, and options. I hope that I never forget to be thankful for those things.
The building facades are newer, more streets are paved than the last time I visited, but Cambodia is still a very poor country. And sex trafficking is tied to that. I don't know the circumstances of the women we saw, why they made their choices, or if they had a choice. But sexual slavery is a real, terrible thing that happens in Cambodia. You can learn all about it from Somaly Mam, a Cambodian woman who wrote a memoir about her years of enslavement. She now runs a foundation that helps bring women and girls out of the industry.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment